Really Listening: Sequel to Listening
by The Manwell
Summary: Heero had put everything on the line to rescue the one person he can't live without. Now he just has to tell him. Language, POV, shounen-ai. (Complete)


**Really Listening** by The Manwell

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Dedicated to all of the fabulous people who read, reviewed, and rallied for more.  
You know who you are.

...ooo...

There, in that nondescript hospital room, I talked. But I'm not sure if Duo heard me; he never woke up that night. Whatever drugs he'd received from his captors must have been quite strong. He slept until just after nine o'clock that morning. And I know exactly when he came to because I was still holding his hand when it happened. I'd watched his lashes flutter briefly before revealing an unfocused pair of royal blue eyes. I'd watched him fight through the dregs of the chemicals in his system until he lined me up in his sights. I'd watched him for years but not until now was I nearly undone by him.

"Duo?" I ask.

The soft, scratchy hum of recognition that vibrates in his throat is the most beautiful sound I've heard since he went on that godforsaken undercover assignment.

I don't release his hand as I reach for the plastic water pitcher and a paper cup. I fill it only about halfway. When the soft sounds of the water's annoyed protest at being so abruptly relocated fades, I'm even more aware of Duo's slow, tired breaths and exhausted, blinking-interspersed gaze. Taking in the lack of a straw, I realize that I'm going to have to let go of his hand.

"Here," I say, turning back to him. I attempt to tug my fingers from his grasp but somehow my hand doesn't come free right away. Before I can wonder about that, Duo's fingers relax and I'm allowed to slide my hand under the base of his skull.

"Let me help." It doesn't seem like a very elaborate request but it feels like I'm asking him to let me do so much more.

His gaze is homed in on mine and I feel like he can see everything else I wish with all my soul he'd let me do.

He nods.

I'm careful to start him off with tiny sips. I'm reluctant to offer the water too quickly and thereby rush this task. I have no desire to remove my hand from his hair unless I can compensate for the loss with his palm and fingers.

He drinks slowly.

This almost makes me smile. Duo has never been a very... patient patient. We have that in common.

Inevitably, the water is gone. I gently return his head to the stiff pillow. Holding up the cup aloft, I ask, "More?"

His gaze flickers to it and then me before he declines with a shake of the head.

I swallow as I return the item in my hand to the bedside table. My skin feels so numb now that I'm not touching him, like nothing is quite real anymore, like I'm a blind man who has also lost his hands. I reach for him without even thinking about it.

My palm cups the muscled curve of his shoulder and I watch, entranced, by the tired smile that he gives me. I rub my thumb back and forth over the fabric of his undershirt. It's an instinctive reaction.

For a long time, we don't speak and that's fine. I'm perfectly happy to simply sit here with him. Forcing myself to go through the motions of the last three weeks has been something like living in the pale shadow of hell. Until then, I'd never comprehended the true extent to which I needed him in my life. Even if that interaction amounted to a morning greeting at the break room coffee pot and the occasional evening spent in front of a television with a beer in hand. I'd always known I wanted more. I just hadn't realized how very much I'd wanted it.

My hand leaves his shoulder and moves up. The backs of my fingers brush against his stubbled jaw, ghost upward over his ear, and carefully comb back a limp strand of hair digging into the corner of his eye.

I wait for him to ask me what time it is. I wait for him to ask me if there's something seriously wrong with him, something that would explain my inability to stop touching him. I don't know how long we linger in the silence, but I do know the morning nurse's entry is what brings it to a conclusion.

"Ah, Agent Maxwell. Good morning. How are you feeling?"

...ooo...

I know he's angry with me for going in after him but I don't let that stop me from insisting on taking him home. I'd expected some resistance. Whatever had happened to him on that mission had not been enough to bring him so low that he would be incapable of finding his own way home. He knows this. I know this. The doctor probably also knows this. Still, she'd recommended that I keep an eye on him for any signs of latent side effects. I'd just wanted to be with him a little longer. I know he'll lecture me once he gets me alone, but I'm fine with that.

We're trudging up the stairs to Duo's second floor apartment when he leans his shoulder against mine. My arm automatically bumps and brushes against his in the act of reaching to span his waist. He leans a little heavier against me and I can feel the slight twitching of his muscles under my hand: he's exhausted.

From the landing, it's another twelve paces to his front door. He accomplishes this in concentrated silence. I'm a little surprised when he pulls his keys out his pocket and simply pushes them in my direction. One handed, I flip trough my options and slide the appropriate selection into the lock.

Once inside, I toss them on the nearby counter. Duo shrugs off his jacket and dumps it across one of the bar stools before claiming its neighbor for himself. He just sort of pours himself over the counter, forming a puddle of bent and quaking limbs and twisted brown hair with a pair of timid ears taking cover beneath it.

I know he's tired, so I don't ask him if he's all right. I crouch down at the base of the stool and start unlacing his boots. He sighs when the first one comes off and turns his head toward me after I've removed the second.

"You shouldn't have gone in after me," he whispers, eyes closed.

I don't dignify that with a reply.

"Especially alone."

I decide to just let him get this out of his system. I'm sure this isn't the whole show. He'll yell and threaten to beat me black and blue later, I'm sure. This is the obligatory pre-reaming. Just so I understand that even though he's only one step to the right of being comatose that doesn't mean he's either forgotten about it or forgiven me.

"It's been years since you went in the field," he continues. "You weren't in any shape to be hauling my ass around that compound."

I have to agree with him. I most _assuredly_ hadn't been in any kind of shape to be doing that. But how to I explain that he'd loaned me the extra strength I'd needed in the first place?

"And you know I will kick your ass all over the place when I'm feeling up to it."

"I know," I hear myself tell him. I'm smiling but he can't see it.

"You're an asshole, Yuy," he tells me.

"I know."

"You piss me off at least twice a day without even trying."

"I know."

"I'm gettin' tired of you saving my ass."

I think back to the war – to the events he's talking about – and feel a small, wry, half-grin nudge at my mouth. There are a lot of things I could say to that. I could tell him to stop being so reckless. I could suggest he let the other agents tackle the hard assignments every once in a while. I could remind him that he doesn't have to save the entire world by himself.

I say, "I know."

He snorts. "Musta took a lot to hold all that in," he mumbles in a clear indication of having read my mind.

I'm not really bothered by it. I reach forward and rub his back in small, sweeping circles.

He sighs again.

"You're a really good friend, Heero."

I smile. "I learned from the best," I tell him, lifting on hand to poke him a couple of times between his shoulders.

A muffled chuckle reaches me. I feel his back move beneath my hands as he takes a deep, fortifying breath. He pushes himself up and away from the counter and tells me, "Shower."

I nod. I step away as he slides off of the stool and onto somewhat studier legs.

"Help yourself to something to eat," he continues. "There isn't much..."

"I'll be fine."

"Hm," he agrees and shuffles into the bathroom.

I stand there for a moment just feeling warm and calm. When the water kicks on in the other room, I blink down at Duo's jacket and shoes then put them away. Duo's kitchen is vacant of perishables like milk and bread, as it should be. I know he's always careful to either use up or donate the food that will go bad while he's on an extended assignment. I find condensed soup, pasta, sauce, peanut butter, processed cheese, frozen waffles, and syrup but I can't really work up the enthusiasm for any of it.

I make soup and waffles. I'm sure Duo will appreciate the bizarre combination.

His place setting is ready when he wanders out of the shower accompanied by a humid heat wave. He grunts at the selection I've set out for him, smiles at me, and picks up his spoon. The waffles end up being a kind of dessert and I'm glad I made them.

"Bed," Duo says, capitalizing on my forbearance of single-word sentences.

"Okay," I tell him. I stack our dishes and dump them in the sink but when I turn back around, he's still sitting in his chair. "Duo?" I ask.

"Tired," he tells me.

He doesn't even have to ask for my help. I just walk over and pull him to his feet. Once I've got him in motion, inertia does the rest. He crawls into bed as soon as his knees hit the edge of it.

"Your hair," I warn him, eyeing the damp, loose ponytail.

"Don't care," he replies.

I'm pretty sure this is my cue to camp out on the couch and catch a nap of my own but he stops me with a single motion: he holds out his hand. I hesitate, not because I don't want to touch him, but because I'm not sure exactly how he wants me to. I reach for him anyway, just brining my hand into range, and let him decide. I'm surprised when he interlaces our fingers with fierce determination.

"Heero..." he tells me quietly and the tone of his voice alerts me to the sincerity of his oncoming words. "I _was_ listening..."

For a moment, I stare at him, confused. And then I make the mental leap from the here and now to the hospital room and my confession of hours ago. I stare at him, dumbfounded. I'd assumed... His breathing patterns had never changed... How could he have heard...?

But he must have because his grasp tightens gently around my hand and his fingers stir just slightly against my skin, bringing my undivided attention to the gesture. I look into his eyes, afraid he'd only heard one word out of ten and doesn't really understand what it is I want... what I _need_...

He pulls me closer until I'm leaning over him and I inhale sharply. He smells like I remember. The shower has washed off the cloying scent of days-old clothes and hospital disinfectants. Now there is only him: his shampoo and conditioner, his aftershave, and a clean non-smell that only occurs after a long, hot shower.

Duo lifts his other hand and cups my shoulder. He pauses for a moment and simply looks at me. And then he drags the backs of his fingers against my jaw, up over my ear, and tucks back an errant lock of hair with a warm yet ghostly caress.

"Stay?" he asks.

I can barely breathe let alone get up and leave.

I nod.

He tugs on my hand again and I lie down beside him, curling toward his warmth. I bring our clasped hands up between us and tuck them against my chest. My cheek is touching his shoulder and my knee is nestled against the underside of one of his. I let out a long breath and close my eyes.

It wasn't until later – days later – that he told me he hadn't really heard much of my mid-night confession at all. He'd only caught tiny bits of a few words. But, he said, he'd heard my voice. The sound of it. The want in it. I'd stared at him as he shrugged and said, "I figured it out."

I'd smiled for him then, understanding that he really _had_ been listening.

And that was all this suicidal computer geek with buns of steel had ever asked for, anyway.

The End... absolutely positively THE END! I mean it!


End file.
